


Christmas with the Lannisters

by spinsterclaire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Gen, House Lannister, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cocaine, beer, a secret stash of gay porn, bittersweet memories, Madonna karaoke, and an air mattress: this is Christmas with the Lannisters.</p><p>Told from multiple POV's: Tyrion (3), Cersei (2), Jaime (2). Posting chapter by chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tyrion

**Author's Note:**

> Hehe, hello all! I wrote this for the Jaime/Cersei Library Christmas Fic Challenge on tumblr. I totally intended it to be super fluffy and happy but...those stupid Lannys never listen to me. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Whole lotta words but a whole lotta love went into it. Happy holidays! (ONLY A FEW MORE MONTHS UNTIL S4!!!) 
> 
> None of these flawless characters belong to me. They're all GRRM's mind-babies and I'm just babysitting them for the time being. :)

It’s Christmas Eve and Tyrion is not in the merriest of moods.

His pants are pooling about his feet, tripping him every time he takes a step . His belt appears to be two sizes too small and no matter how much he sucks in, it still won’t fit around his waist. Laughing to himself, Tyrion fancies that he looks like an elf stuffed in khaki-colored corduroy, so hilariously appropriate for the occasion. _Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas, dear family._

There’s a cum stain on his right pant leg that reminds him of Shae’s tits, warm in his hands, and he suddenly finds himself cursing a woman he never knew for giving him such stunted legs and an affinity for whoring around. He licks his finger and rubs it over the white splotch in earnest, back and forth, back and forth with his thumb, _C’mon, you bastard,_ until it’s the size of a quarter. He concludes that it’ll do – it’ll _have_ to do – and hopes his sister won’t notice it and cluck her tongue in the way that infuriates him.

Tyrion tugs his trousers up a little higher so that they lift an inch off the floor, but his gut gets in the way before he can raise them any further. _Too many fucking beers_ , he thinks as he lifts a bottle of Michelob to his lips. He realizes his vision is slightly blurred and that the room has suddenly titled 45 degrees, but he couldn’t care less. In fact, he wishes he and Shae hadn’t drank the entire bottle of Smirnoff the other night so that he could take a grand swig of it now and make the room tilt even more. “The drunker, the better” was his motto concerning all Lannister holiday celebrations, and if Tyrion doesn’t remember tonight when he wakes tomorrow morning, he might find it in him to sing “happy birthday” to Jesus.

_Ah, Cersei! So good to see you, sweet sister,_ he practices in the mirror. He can’t decide if he should hug the bitch and give her ass a hearty pinch or simply slap her across the face. He settles for a handshake and extends his palm out to his phantom sibling, _Been too long_.

Cersei would force a smile and stride past him into the living room, the smell of musk and cinnamon lingering in her wake as she leaves him at the door, rolling his eyes. _Please, don’t pull that face, Tyrion,_ she would call back. _Your nose is already crooked - must we suffer looking at the backs of your eyeballs as well?_ And then she would be gone, off around the corner and into the arms of another relative who looked at him with just as much disdain. (Beneath that long, golden mane was a pair of snake eyes, Tyrion was sure. Always watching.)

They had never gotten along, him and his sister. He didn’t exactly know _why_ , but he suspected it might have to do with the time he crawled out of Joanna Lannister’s womb, holding their mother’s broken life in his balled-up fists. Or perhaps, he thinks, the animosity began shortly thereafter – when he emptied his diaper to smear shit all over Cersei’s bedroom walls. (There was nothing his sister hated more than a mural painted in imp excrement, and Tyrion could think of nothing better than the image of Cersei falling asleep with nose-plugs jammed up her nostrils.) Either way, little love had ever existed between the two siblings, and not even the L.A. sunshine could leach the contempt out of his big sister, he knows.

 

Tyrion turns back to the mirror and proceeds with his rehearsal. When he sets the Michelob down and hears the familiar clank of an empty bottle, he realizes he’s actually much drunker than he thought. He’ll have to pick up another six-pack on his way over to Father’s. 

Tyrion imagines peering out the frosted window and seeing Jaime, his older brother, scurrying to shove his dick back inside his pants and pull up his zipper. _So lovely to see how some things never change,_ Tyrion would think. He’d make a mental note to swap out the lube in Jaime’s bag for some Gorilla Glue. _Cersei and Jaime, together forever, at last._

 _LITTLE BROTHER,_ Jaime would cry as he swings open the door, completely out of breath (from sticking it in Cersei or from the heavy baggage-lugging, one couldn’t be sure). He’d lift his finger in mock salute and smile the smile that earned him Head Boy four years in a row (though it’d once been horribly crooked, Tyrion liked to remember).

_My, I’d swear you’ve grown an inch since I last saw you!_

Jaime’s imaginary jape makes Tyrion laugh out loud. Jaime has never been the clever one of the brood; he merely whips out the same recycled jokes over and over again to (only) his amusement and it’s sad, really. Tyrion watches as his reflection’s shoulders shake along with his own, its mouth releasing a robust guffaw much like the one now ringing throughout his bedroom. As long as he can laugh at himself, Tyrion thinks, nothing can touch him.

 _If you’re talking about height, J, you remain as funny as ever,_ he would respond. _But if you’re referring to something else, I’m afraid you’re a bit mistaken. I’ve always been bigger than you, brother, don’t you remember?_

Jaime would laugh and his green eyes would crinkle up at the corners. In that moment, with his big brother towering above him shining his high-watt grin, Tyrion would love the disheveled man standing before him more than he ever thought he could. Jaime was arrogant – there was no denying _that_ – but at least he didn’t have a pole stuck up his ass like the rest of the Lannisters. He could take what he gave and rest easy at the end of the day.

_Where’s Cersei?_

_Washing daddy’s feet? Eating the house cat? I don’t know, I’m not her keeper._

Jaime would ignore the slight and brush past him at the echo of Cersei’s voice in the other room – _Yes, L.A. is ah-maz-ing_ (so faux-American, so annoyingly _Hollywood_ ) – and once again Tyrion would be left alone at the doorstep. He’d hear the chatter of his family continue as he checked the driveway for more guests, suffocating in his too-long, too-small corduroy pants all the while. The remains of his semen would still be encrusted on the right leg and, for once, he’d be grateful for his small stature.

“Beer”, Tyrion says aloud, “I need more beer.” He takes one last glimpse at his shrunken frame, exhales so that his bangs lift with the gust of his breath, and turns to retrieve his car keys. It’s 7 o’clock and if he truly wants his head and belly to be swimming in lager all night long, he ought to make his booze run now. Father _never_ tolerated tardiness, after all.

_Yes, yes. Definitely more beer._


	2. Cersei

It is loud in her father’s living room, and Cersei finds herself wishing she hadn’t let Taena convince her to do that extra line of coke.

 _C’mon, you wimp. You know you’ll regret it if you don’t,_ the Spanish beauty had teased, pupils dilated and mouth spread in an infectious smirk. Her dark hair tumbled down her shoulders, and for a split second Cersei had wished she hadn’t rejected the girl’s advances at The Rock last night.

(She had said she was too high, too jetlagged from the plane ride over and that she simply wasn’t “in the mood”. Taena had whimpered in response, given her that silly look that attracted idiotic scumbags like flies, but never succeeded in weakening Cersei’s resolve. The way the woman lowered her gaze and puckered her lips made her look vaguely impish, and it reminded Cersei of Tyrion.)

In truth, all Cersei had been able to think about was how Jaime would be fucking her on the basement loveseat the following evening. Perhaps they’d do it on Father’s bed or on the kitchen counter, on the floor in front of the fireplace or even in the bathtub. In that moment, Cersei hadn’t wanted Taena’s head between her legs, but her twin’s, and so she told Taena to drop it. She bought herself a gin and tonic, downing it all in a single chug. _Tomorrow._

This evening's events had played out a differently, though, and Cersei had allowed herself to fall prey to Taena's bubbly encouragement. When Taena had implored her to keep going, Cersei had feigned a nasal whine and pushed the memory of the previous night aside.

“God, T. You’re the devil, you know that?” She had grabbed the ten pound note lying crumpled on the counter and inhaled the fine powder through her nose until her eyes watered. She had wondered if the feeling would ever get old, if the burn would ever hurt instead of make her feel alive. “The absolute worst” _._ And then they had dissolved into peals of laughter, already soaring.

 

But now, standing amongst her extended family members, Cersei feels the drip in the back of her throat, and for some reason it’s making breathing more difficult than it should be. She fears her nose might start bleeding if her Aunt Genna continues babbling about the loose, doe-eyed Stark bitch for much longer. The pressure in her skull keeps building, building, building and one more mention of that wretched name might...

“Apparently he’s left Elia for the girl – _Elia!_ And think! They have children. Infants, practically!”

Cersei nods and almost blurts that the Rhaegar Targaryen prefers small breasts to the big jugs that hang from his wife’s chest _,_ but she quickly chastises herself, appalled at how freely her mind and tongue flow when her head is buzzing like this. Such bawdiness might charm some perverted, rich divorcee at a bar, but it surely wouldn’t do her any favors here. _It’s the coke, it’s the coke. God dammit, Taena, why did I listen to you?_   She hates not being her sharpest when she’s around her family; it makes her skin crawl.

“…But you didn’t hear it from me, eh?”

Genna elbows Cersei gently in the side and raises her eyebrows before letting a boisterous cackle escape her lips. Her breath smells like ass, and it makes Cersei want to puke all over the woman’s ugly Donna Karen dress (her aunt is of the belief that anything designer is worth buying, no matter how much it accentuated her frumpy figure). Instead, Cersei quickly swallows back any rising bile and carefully breathes through her nostrils. She fixates on Genna’s protruding stomach, counting the fat rolls visible through the burgundy fabric to maintain her balance. Four, total.

“I’m going to go get a drink of water,” she declares with too much enthusiasm, over-compensating for her distractedness and obvious instability. Genna nods and gives her a wary look. _She knows. She definitely knows._

When Cersei walks over to the refreshment table, she spots Tyrion heading in the same direction, thinks that maybe it'd be wise to turn around and recount her aunt’s rubber tires. She isn’t in the mood for this, doesn’t want to exchange witty banter with her brother because, quite frankly, she’s all over the place and can barely say anything eloquent except:

_Fuck._

 

Her youngest brother had noticed something was off the minute she had walked through the front door. Nothing could get past him, the little troll.

 _You smell like an old drunk,_ she had mocked when he stuck out his hand for her to shake. She swatted it away and crossed her arms indignantly across her chest. The man reeked of beer and cigarettes, his own cologne of desperation. _And how thoughtful of you to hasten your death with lung cancer **,**_ she almost said, but the coke was making it hard to focus and she soon forgot what she even wanted to say in the first place _._

Tyrion grinned – he was always _grinning_ whenever she insulted him and it made her palms twitch – and stepped closer to her, his eyes trained on her own.

 _And you smell…ravishing, sister. Like a beautiful English rose, but, oh!_ His voiced elevated in pitch and his eyes grew wider, _Your nose is bleeding!_

Immediately, Cersei had lifted her hand to swipe away whatever blood had dripped down her face, only to find that her skin was dry. Tyrion had departed for the kitchen, laughing hysterically.

           

“Tell me, Cers. When _did_ we become such messes?” he is asking now _._ He pours a glass of wine and shoves it her way, the goblet filled to the brim with the red liquid. He grabs a beer from the cooler for himself, cracks it open on the edge of the table so that the cap flies off and hits Lancel in the butt. Their cousin whisks around, hand on his behind to identify the perpetrator, and when he looks at Cersei, he blushes. She wiggles her fingers at him. _Such a stupid boy._

“What are you talking about, Tyrion?” The wine tastes good, and it calms her nerves a bit. If Jaime were here, she’d feel even better. _Where the hell is he?_

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t play coy with me, Cers. L.A. isn’t working out for you and you know it. Not that I’ve got room to judge, but…”

The truth of his words stings like a slap to the face.

She had moved to California to pursue an acting career. The Americans had said she’d be “great” and “was filled with potential”, so she had promptly bought a ticket for the next flight to LAX, ready for this next chapter in her life. That night, Academy Awards, Globes, and Emmys all flashed before her eyes, and she’d fallen asleep thinking of all the accolades she’d acquire in her lifetime. _Cersei Lannister, cinematic icon and legend._

What greeted her in the City of Angels, however, was neither golden nor even _copper_. The place was dirty and thugs lurked in alleyways, their bottles of liquor concealed within crumpled brown bags and joints hanging from their lips. She saw two old women get their purses snatched right out of their wrinkled clutches all within her first week, and so she started taking boxing classes at the gym for the sake of learning some proper self-defense techniques. (She began fucking her trainer after the second session. She “was lonely”, she’d told him – but she was _always_ feeling _lonely_ in L.A.)

Worst of all, everyone and their mother wanted to be an actor or a screenwriter or _Something_ with a capital “S” in the entertainment industry. The lady at Starbucks was auditioning for Miss Hannigan in the Annie remake. Don, the paper guy, was taking lessons at the drama school from an 80’s sitcom has-been. Her neighbor across the hall said she was in the process of making a deal with the Weinsteins, while the guy downstairs just refused a role on Glee because they wanted him to sing “Cry Me a River” (“and he would _not_ sing Justin Timberlake”). As they had all blabbed about their future plans and pending successes, Cersei had wanted to punch them in their smug faces, spit on their pleather shoes and scream, “This isn’t your dream! This is _MY_ dream, you idiots. You’ll never succeed.” Alas, she had faked a smile and merely said, “I wish you the best of luck” in the sweetest voice she could muster.

 

“Sad how even Father’s money can’t buy us success…Though it _can_ buy us sex, booze,” Tyrion looks at her knowingly, “ _Drugs_ …and, really, what more does one need?” His Budweiser is half-full while Cersei’s wine glass is empty, drained to its very dregs. She wants to refill it with something from Father’s cabinet, but she knows Tyrion will only make some jest about how she can’t hold her liquor. ( _Easy, Cersei. Remember the last holiday party where you drank too much? Oh wait, no – you wouldn’t, would you? But I’m sure everyone else still does...and the carpet…and Father’s suit…)_

“Oh, shut _up_ , Tyrion. L.A is –“

“ _Ah-maz-ing_ , I know. I heard.”

“Great,” she finishes, ignoring his taunt, “They’re always looking for fresh talent from across the pond. Any day now, and I’m going to get my big break.” She thinks she should cross her fingers or find a piece of wood to knock on – no sense in jinxing her luck – but her hands are shaking and she doesn’t want to draw attention to them. “But what about _you_ , little brother? What is it that _you’re_ doing? Aside from getting fat, of course.” Cersei pats his stomach and clucks her tongue because he always hates it when she does that. She revels in the sight of his jaw tensing and fists clenching.

“I’ve been biding my time with sluts and beer,” he says pompously, “I’ve begun writing a novel about a fat midget who drinks himself to death, came in 567th place in the London Marathon, learned that the word for ‘fuck’ in German is, very appropriately, ‘ficken’, and broke my pinky toe Irish dancing with Ida from Dublin…” Tyrion drains the rest of his Bud and makes to grab a new bottle, only to find that just Pellegrino is left (and that simply won’t do).

“She had the most magnificent tits, I have ever seen,” he whispers to himself, his tiny palms cupping the air in front of him and eyes lifted to the ceiling, “Oh! But I _also_ got a dog! A brute of a female. Can’t decide on a name.”

Cersei hears the front door open and slam shut, the chilly wind carrying itself all the way to where she’s standing. Goosebumps rise up on her arms.

“What should I name my new bitch, sweet sister?”

“Jaime,” she cries.

Tyrion ponders this a moment. “Well, she isn’t missing any limbs and she doesn’t hump her sibli—” But Cersei dashes off to hug the blonde-haired man entering the room before her little brother can finish.

 It’s been months since she’s talked to him, her twin, and that was via a seven-word email that merely said, _I took care of it. I’m sorry_. (Except “care” had been spelled “kare” because she’d been drunk when she wrote it. And who gave a damn about proper spelling when gin was coursing through their veins?)

She notices Jaime’s eyes darken as she approaches him and looks her up and down. She swears he flinches at the sight of her and, for some reason, it makes her want to hide and cover herself. She’s skinnier than she was in March, she knows, and Jaime always liked her curves; her collarbones are sticking out and when he hugs her she's sure he can feel the brittle ropes of her ribs. ( _It’s the coke, it’s the coke._ ) She looks more like him this way, though.

“Thank _God_ you’re here, J. I was just about to go rummaging around for some vodka. These fucking _people_ , J, I…” Her brother gives her a familial kiss on the cheek and proceeds to say hello to the others in the room, nodding his head and lifting his chin in greeting like he’s some fraternity boy being welcomed by his cronies. He’s dressed in a white button down, and it makes him look like a pretty-faced cherub, though the stiff one in his slacks from his brief contact with Cersei tells a different story.

Uncle Kevan stalks towards them with his shoulders pulled back and chest held high, slapping Jaime on the back and bellowing out “just how proud he is of all that his nephew has done”. Soon everyone is swarming around them, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, and Cersei clutches onto her twin’s shirt to keep herself from keeling over.

“Jaime! You made it home safely!”

“God, look at that face! You get more handsome every year.”

“I’ve missed you!”

“What have they been feeding you over there, cos?”

“I heard Alfghanistan is hot as hell. You must be grateful for the cold, eh boy?”

The room is a flurry of proclamations of love, joy, and admiration and Cersei’s head is on the verge of exploding from all the noise. She notices that Tywin and Tyrion are the only ones who haven’t joined the flock of squabbling Lannisters.

Her father sits in a leather chair by the fireplace, right leg resting on his left knee and a Manhattan in his hand. He tips the glass back to pour the amber liquid down his throat as his stone-cold gaze observes the commotion in front of him. His mouth is set in firm, grim line and betrays no emotion, not even a hint of relief or gratitude that his eldest son is home. For the first time in her life, Cersei feels the slow burning of hatred for the man who never smiles, never calls, never hugs his fucking children when they return from the frontlines.

Tyrion is still over by the refreshment table, and yells out, “GOOD TO SEE YOU, BROTHER!” He looks at her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She expects the angry flames licking her heart to grow even larger, wilder, but she finds herself smiling instead. Even if he was a short, chubby imp who drank too much at least Tyrion _cared_.

She turns to Jaime and puts her hand over his, and her family is all smiles, looking upon the two Lannister twins in all their golden and emerald beauty, still so close after all these years.

“You’re home,” she whispers so that only he can hear, “You’re _home_.”

 


	3. Jaime

Jaime is in Tywin’s room when he finds them.

They’re resting in the back of his closet, lying nonchalantly upon the shelf like they’re merely a collection of _Golfers’_ fucking _Digest_. Just “Tiger Woods: The Interview” and nothing more. He lifts one from the pile and leafs through its pages, throwing it down after two seconds because he’s already seen enough by then. _Well shit, Dad._

Jaime had arrived at the London townhome with a chill in his bones that had made it hard to move. He was used to the sweltering heat of the Middle East and sunburn and _sweat_ , not icicles and visible puffs of breath. Back at the base, Jaime had walked around stark naked to keep himself from boiling alive in all his heavy gear and, yet, here he was now bundled up in a fucking _parka_. To top it all off, the icy gusts had practically frozen his face and shrunk his cock to the size of a thumb. He wasn’t meant for this winter business.

When he had seen all the cars parked haphazardly in the driveway, he had felt his blood grow even colder (Lannisters were never good drivers – they were used to chauffeurs transporting their rich asses around the city, after all). Jaime gave the finger to the baby Jesus figurine across the street after he’d recognized the Mercedes that belonged to his dad’s siblings. _Thanks for nothing, kid._

The last thing Jaime wanted was a crowd fawning all over him, their beloved fallen hero reunited with his loved ones at last. Genna would pinch his face, Kevan would gab on about how enlisting had been all his idea, Lancel would ask questions endlessly...

_You lose a fucking finger and suddenly you’re the bravest man in the world._

 

Cersei had looked different – sickly, almost – and the bitterness of guilt had come creeping in as soon as he’d spotted her across the room.

 _I took kare of it. I’m sorry,_ her last email had said.

The “k” in “care” could only mean that she’d been drinking again and he couldn’t decide if he hated her or himself more because of it. His fingers had hovered over the keys, ready to type out his own apology, a plea for forgiveness, a command for her to _fucking quit with the liquor already_. But instead, Jaime had merely deleted it. _You have 0 new messages,_ his inbox had read. But hers had still lingered in the air days later, like stale cigarette smoke or a rotting animal. He figured he’d die choking on it.

Cersei was standing by Tyrion near the beverage station when he entered. Her mouth had been so set on its edge, Jaime thought her jawline looked almost sharper than the daggers gleaming in her emerald eyes. _Stab, stab, stab,_ they screamed, and for a second, Jaime had seen his impish brother, all bloodied and scarred, with Cersei cackling above him.

His twin’s hands were shaking, though, and he’d doubted they could hold a wineglass, much less wield a knife. His immediate instinct had been to go grab them, hold them still, ask her what was wrong and if it was his fault, was it really, _really_ all his fault? But Jaime _knew_ what was wrong and he _knew_ she blamed him, no matter how many times she said that she didn’t, that “it was already history”. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

           

Their relatives had always said that Jaime and Cersei had entered the world with their bodies tangled together, two stubborn halves of one would-be whole. _You were clutching your sister’s foot,_ their nanny had always reminded him, _She’ll always be your closest friend_.

But ever since Jaime had first heard the tale, he preferred to believe that it was his sister’s hand that he’d held, not her foot. He liked to think that he’d taken the opportunity to run his fingers through hers while he’d still had the chance to do so, that he had had memorized the lifelines of her palms before it was too late and could no longer look at her in the way he wanted to.

 

The first thing Cersei had said to him upon his arrival was how thrilled she was that he was home. The second was, naturally, her desire for some of Dad’s expensive imported vodka – “the strong stuff, y’know?”

 _Get your shit together, sister,_ he had wanted to tell her, _You look terrible and everyone has noticed_. (Cersei may be Jaime’s closest friend, but she’d always put herself before everyone else; he knew that all too well.) He’d stayed quiet, though. He wanted to get laid later, after all, and insulting her would only hurt his chances.

 Jaime had kissed her on the cheek and smiled at his family’s “Welcome home’s!” while silently vowing to pour every bottle of booze down the kitchen sink. He wouldn’t let her do this to herself – no, not tonight – and even if she hit him and spat in his face because of it, he’d _still_ throw it all down the drain. Alcohol made her stupid, and Jaime didn’t like it when Cersei was stupid. He always felt uncomfortable hearing his normally astute sister slur her words. It was like finding your parents crying alone in their bedroom – not _right_.

But the minute his lips had touched her skin and he’d hardened beneath his dress pants, Jaime wondered if maybe Cersei being happy was worth a little discomfort. He could deal with the insults and the way she’d drunkenly talk about fucking other men as long as she was his for the night.

“He keeps the best shit upstairs; I’ll go put my bags in the guest room and look around for some,” he’d told her.

 She’d smiled, completely aware that she’d won this game – again. (How ironic that he could shoot a sniper on a battlefield, but never defeat his twin at a game they’ve played since they were only three years old.)

 

It is his goddamn weak resolve and uncooperative penis that has brought Jaime here now, staring at the photo of a man sucking a giant, black dick. The gentleman on his knees does not look entirely unlike his father, and the resemblance between the two makes Jaime think he might be more desperate to find the vodka than even Cersei is. He tries to ignore the fact that certain pages are dog-eared and turns to start his search for the alcohol elsewhere.

He rummages through various chests of drawers, but he can’t seem to shake off the image of Tywin fucking some skinny, pierced fruitcake beneath the glow of a red bulb.

 _I’m expensive,_ the boy would say. Alex, maybe – weren’t all the gay whores named something unassuming these days?

Tywin Lannister would let out the briefest of laughs, _And I’m rich._ Alex would moan loudly and his father would tell him to stop or cover the kid’s mouth with his hand. _Shh._

 Jaime is grateful when he hears the unmistakable sound of glass rolling along wood. It means he can get the fuck out of here and deny the existence of _100% Beef_ and fake prostitutes named Alex and his dad’s dirty money. He prays that the main course isn’t steak tonight, but he’s on his own – no religious icons are allowed in the house, and he _had_ told Jesus to fuck off just thirty minutes ago. Instead of whispering an “amen”, Jaime screws the cap off the bottle and puts his lips around its long, fat spout.

 _Well shit, Dad_ , he thinks again, quickly removing it from his mouth and shoving it beneath the flap of his jacket. He can only see the old cock-sucker from the magazine.

 

When Jaime descends the stairs, he finds that Tyrion is standing at the bottom.

“You really think she needs that?”

Jaime sees his little brother’s face and almost laughs at the concern that’s playing across it. The dwarf looks a fool with his trousers swamping his tiny feet and a month’s worth of facial hair decorating his chin. Like he’s forsaken his family’s fat trust fund and taken to the streets, above them and their vanity or whatever it was that Tyrion claimed they were all “infected with.” (University had turned him into such a goddamn progressive.)

“Since when do you care what Cersei does?”

Now it’s Tyrion’s turn to cackle, and when he does, Jaime thinks his brother’s belt might actually combust from the way his belly expands with laughter.

 “I’ve got a brother surrounded by men who’ve got bombs flying out their arses; I don’t need a sister who croaks in her sleep because she drowns in her own vomit.”

Jaime knows Tyrion can see the remorse on his face as soon as his words reach him, thinks it surely must be painted straight across his chest in a scarlet R. Jaime wishes he was stronger and wiser than he is, that he could refuse Cersei. He wants to run down the stairs and engulf his sibling in his arms and tell him he’s right, he’s so right, and _Let’s throw it away_. But he remains on the steps and doesn’t move.

“Though that would be quite a sight, wouldn’t it, J?” Tyrion continues, “Cersei smelling of roses in life and puke in death. Father would be proud to see his only daughter go so memorably,” he pauses and looks at the floor. When he raises his gaze to look at Jaime once more, he’s got a grin plastered across his face, and there’s a certain sadness in the way it doesn’t fully reach his brother’s eyes, “At least a monstrous imp wouldn’t be the cause of it. That’s a fate worse than death, itself, some would say.”

Jaime is only half listening to Tyrion now – his brother may speak in a loud bravado and think himself a clever man, but Jaime knows everything he says in that moment is bullshit. The Lannister children are experts at concealing their true feelings; they’ve done it their whole lives. Tyrion cares – he cares too much - even if he damns the compassion to hell.

“Oh, don’t look so _hurt_ , Jaime. You know I love you and your female-self,” he concedes reluctantly, “But I should know by now that you’ll always put her first. Even if it fucks everything else up even more.”

Tyrion waddles away on his stunted legs before Jaime can think of a response. He knows what his little brother is referring to, and even as the memory fills him with anger, all he can feel in that moment is Cersei’s hands all over him.

 

They had been seventeen when they’d run away to Paris.

Jaime had found Cersei crying in her room, mascara streaming down her cheeks and staining the white pillow beneath her head. Her golden waves had been a mess, skewed every which way, and even though her eyes were dark, Jaime had thought she still looked like the sun. He had asked her what was wrong, had gently rested his hand on her back in weak consolation. (But he knew what was wrong. Of course he knew what was wrong.) He was always shocked at how much larger his hands were, despite the fact that they were twins. But it was true – his fingers surpassed hers whenever they placed their palms against each other. They could engulf hers, close around her skinny throat and choke the life out of her if he wanted to.

“I can’t fucking stand it, J,” she had cried, “I can’t stand this house and its emptiness and the way it’s always so fucking _cold._ I can’t _stand_ hearing Tyrion running around, not knowing that everything has gone to shit since he’s shown up. Not knowing what he’s _done_.”

Everything about his twin when she was angry made him want to take her on the bed, right then and there. He had yearned to pin down her arms, kiss her fiercely, until she’d forgotten why she was saying “no” and started urging him on instead. _Yes, Jaime, yes. Please,_ please _._

 “He has no idea, J,” her voice had broken, “He has _no idea_. Doesn’t that just _frustrate_ you?”

Jaime had nodded, acquiescent.

In truth, though, it didn’t.

Though Joanna Lannister had died giving birth to their baby brother, Jaime hadn’t found it in him to place the blame on Tyrion. Even if he _had_ spent nine years wondering why this shrunken troll had outlived their mother, he still couldn’t spot the monster that Cersei and Dad seemed to find in his littlest sibling. When his family sang “happy birthday” to Tyrion it always sounded like a dirge for a dead woman, rather than a celebration for someone who was actually still alive. It was disgustingly cruel and sad and uncomfortable – nine years had surely taught him _that_.

It was during this time of reflection that Jaime had also realized Life was simply fickle, and that it took what it wanted and fucked the rest. It cursed mothers with short lives and young boys with even shorter legs. It wasn’t Tyrion’s fault that Life was the biggest monster of them all.

 

Jaime had looked at Cersei with a forced empathetic smile, and when he reached his hand out to wipe away one of her tears, she had swatted it like a fly.

“You don’t care at all, do you, Jaime?”

“Cers…this day is hard on everyone—“

“Get out,” she had spat, “just get _out_. I can’t stand you either.”

 

She had found the strength within her to tolerate him just a few hours later, though, as was customary whenever she became angry with her twin (she needed him like she needed air). Jaime woke in the middle of the night to find her standing in his doorway. She had carried two bags in her hands and her hair was pulled into a ponytail, hidden by the baseball cap their dad had brought back for Jaime from New York. He’d barely recognized her, seeing only himself in the shadowy figure in the doorframe.

 Jaime had tried to play the gruff, annoyed brother and ask what the fuck she wanted, say that it was 2 a.m., that school was _tomorrow_ _for chrissakes_ , but a pile of clothes had been thrown in his direction before he could summon the words.

 She had promptly (and ever so quietly) closed his dresser drawers and strode towards his bed on her tiptoes. When he saw the expression in her eyes, he’d known that he would do whatever it was she’d ask of him.

“I’m getting out of here and going to Paris. Come with me.”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

And he had.

They took the train that night, Cersei sleeping in his lap while the cart moved along the tracks and carried them away from London and Tyrion, Tywin and everything else Cersei “couldn’t stand.” But Joanna Lannister’s ghost remained by their sides the entire time, there in the very cabin in which they sat. Jaime could feel her and smell her and every time he had looked down at his sleeping sister, he could only see their mother’s face.

“You look like her,” he had whispered, and he’d spent the rest of the night talking to her as though the sleeping figure wasn’t his twin, but a dead woman clad in gold. The whistle of the wind outside took on the sound of her velvet voice, and he fell asleep thinking his mother was whispering sweet-nothing's in his ears.

 

In Paris, they stayed in a hostel, smoked cigarettes, ate French bread, and made love whenever they could. Cersei had flitted about the room humming Edith Piaf in her transparent gown, an angel in white and pink and robin’s egg blue each and every night. Jaime had been able to see her nipples through the sheer fabric, her breasts so supple and beautiful and _feminine_ , and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t always be like this. She was softer in the glow of the moonlight, and he loved her most when she was this way. So young, so gorgeously free.

Two weeks into their stay, they had lain in bed side by side when Cersei had started giggling uncontrollably, unable to stop or even speak between breaths.

“What’s so funny?” he had asked. (To this day, he still wishes he’d had a camera, so he could show her what she looked like in that moment; he wanted to show her that she didn’t always have to be so damn hard – so damn _serious_ – just because she was a minute and twenty seconds older.)

“They think we’re dead.”

“What?”

“I left a note.”

“Cers, what the hell are you saying?”

“They think we killed ourselves. Father, Tyrion, everyone. We can stay here forever, J. We drowned ourselves in the Thames and _died_.” When she laughed, it was like a knife through his heart. Cersei had always had a flair for the dramatics but this time she’d gone too far, and he’d wanted to hit her and yell at her and shake her. _Why are you like this, sister?!_

Jaime left the next morning without Cersei.

“I’m not fucking leaving, Jaime,” she’d said defiantly. She stood on the metro platform, watching the train recede into the horizon while Jaime had zoomed on home in the opposite direction. Neither had waved goodbye; both had held back tears.

 

When he had arrived at their London apartment, the police were there amongst a throng of fretful Lannisters. Even a few Targaryens were present – Aerys, Rhaella, Rhaeger – though, really, none seemed too distressed at the prospect of the lion twins at the bottom of a river.

 Tywin had been sitting in the leather chair by the fireplace, right leg resting on his left knee and a Manhattan in his hand. He had stared at Tyrion as though the imp was responsible for his missing children, and Jaime had wanted to run to his little brother and tell him he was sorry for everything. (He was sorry that he was so hated, sorry that he was blamed for everything shitty that happened to their family, sorry that he never got the chance to know their mother. I _care about you, Tyrion_.)

 But when Tywin heard the click of the front door, he’d turned away from his youngest child and looked at his prodigal son instead. He had strode over and immediately slapped him across the face with a forceful blow.

“You are my _son_ ,” he said with an eerie calmness, “How could you be so _stupid_?”

 Jaime had sworn there had been tears in his dad’s eyes, but that night he told himself it had just been the glare of the sun. Just the wishful thinking of a green-eyed boy with a family made of treasures at the bottom of the Thames.

 

Uncle Kevan brought Cersei home three days later. Her body was bruised and her clothes were ripped. The necklace Jaime had bought her in Montmartre was no longer clasped around her neck like it had been when she’d told them they were dead. ( _I left a note.)_

“Mugged _,_ ”he had heard Kevan say quietly to his father in the study, “She won’t tell me if anything else happened.” Tywin had shaken his head as though his daughter had deserved every purple mark that tainted her skin.

“I can’t stand you,” Cersei had said again when she passed him in the hallway that evening. Jaime hadn’t known if it was because he’d left her, or because he’d allowed something so horrible to happen to someone so special to him. It wasn’t until years later that he realized it was because she’d failed. Yet another thing had been taken from her.

His uncle visited him in his room later that night, “You’ll be enlisting in the army when you turn eighteen.”

Jaime had not protested but simply nodded and turned away.

 

Jaime is cradling the bottle of Ioradanov, still standing on the staircase, when it seems to gain ten pounds in weight. The way the liquid sloshes around as he takes a step reminds him of ocean waves – up, down, up down, leading to an inevitable crash. He thinks of Paris and of Cersei all those years ago, her chest slowly rising and falling as she’d slept in his lap, and suddenly the vodka becomes the filthiest thing in the world. It’s like hot iron in his hands, and has to get it _away_ and _fast._

He rushes out the front door and chucks it in the middle of the street, shattering glass all over the pavement so that it glitters beneath the moonlight like a cluster of deadly stars.  A car would run over the shards, no doubt, and the tires would blow so the unlucky bastards would be stuck in the freezing cold. When they came and knocked on the front door, the Lannisters would be too busy to hear the faint _tap, tap_ of their fists on the wood. _Happy fucking Christmas, London. Let someone else pick up the pieces tonight._

He goes back inside and tells Cersei there was nothing in their dad’s closet, only a stash of gay porn magazines with biracial couples blowing each other.

“Nothing more.”


	4. Tyrion

 

Tyrion can barely shovel the chicken into his mouth without it first falling to his trousers.

His arms are too damn short, the stupid buggers, and now an assortment of crusted sauces are splattered all over his thighs. _At least they’ve covered up the cum,_ he thinks, staring at the splotches of red sauce decorating his pants. Battle wounds.

He straightens his back as much as he can, even tries sitting on his hands to give himself just an extra inch, but his plate remains at its awkward distance and more food plops onto his clothes. _The world is against you_ , the stains seemed to cry out, and he checks the chair’s legs to see if maybe someone hasn’t chopped their length in half. (He wouldn’t put such cruelty past his family.)

“Do you need a booster seat, little brother,” Cersei asks with a wicked smirk, “Or would you like to come and sit on my lap instead?” She pats her knees like he’s a dog being summoned by his master, so patronizingly sweet and drunk on a sense of false ownership. He wishes it were acceptable to bite her ass and give her rabies, as would befit a bedraggled mutt, but he feels that may not be wise.

Though the fantasies of attacking his sister flit through his mind, he shoves the thought away and begins to devise a different scheme. Something less violent, perhaps, but with Cersei’s head still figuratively crunched between his canines nonetheless.

What Tyrion _really_ wants to do is tell everyone that Little Miss Cersei Lannister is high off her _ass_ on cocaine, a pathetic wannabe actress with no credit to her name except “L.A.’s Primary Slut”. He wants to cup his hands over his mouth so that his voice is booming when he announces that his talented sister has actually only been in _two_ commercials since her grand move – one for a carpet cleaning company, the other for Frisch’s Big Boy. (Tyrion likes to imagine his sister as the female Billy Mays, all exaggerated exclamations and gestures, because that’d be so typical Cersei – to try _so hard_ and merely come across like a fool. _AND THAT’S NOT ALL, FOLKS…)_

 Tyrion reminds himself that he’s above snitching, however – he’s much too smart for such childish tactics – and so he takes a brief sip of wine before taking his first figurative swing. He has always preferred revealing others’ secrets in subtler ways rather than through an ostentatious scene – and nothing would be sweeter than seeing Cersei blindsided by a curveball. He pushes his chair back to look his sibling directly in her bloodshot eyes and watches as her face falls ever so slightly.

“Are you sure, _big sister_? Isn’t that seat usually reserved for Jaime?” He gets up to sit on her when her mouth drops open in silence, first lifting his leg like he’s a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, before finally swinging it over her lap and humping her.

“Ugh, don’t _touch_ me, you troll. Get _off_.”

“Ah, just as I suspected...” He snatches the bread roll from her napkin, takes a giant bite out of it, and sets it back down in front of her, “Mmm, _delicious_.” _Ruff ruff._

 

This isn’t the first time they’ve squabbled over a holiday dinner, Tyrion recalls, and at the sight of an agitated Cersei, Thanksgiving of ’04 comes to his mind almost immediately. He always thinks of it with a sentimental kind of fondness, a small warmth in his belly and congratulatory pat on his back at the memory of it all…

The turkey had been roasting in the oven, and his father had allowed him a glass of wine (a full one, mind you, not just a little sip) so that the edges of his mind were soft and fuzzy – cozy almost, but by no means less sharp. As the red had warmed his insides, he had humiliated his older sister in front of all their guests, the perfect holiday appetizer, as far as Tyrion was concerned.

“Cersei, your bloody tampon didn’t flush down the toilet, and now I’m not entirely convinced that I can eat my dinner,” a fourteen year old Tyrion had announced to the discomfort of the entire table (nothing better than saying something extremely personal to shut up the Lannister family). Everyone had shifted in their seats. Uncle Kevan had choked on his mashed potatoes while an innocent and confused Lancel tugged his shirt sleeve, asking, “What’s a tampon, Daddy?” The boy’s inquiry only served to lodge the mushy, buttery goop even farther down his father’s throat, and Tyrion had thought it’d make a great story if a relative were to die from hearing the words “bloody tampon”. He’d write the obituary himself, even. _The Unfortunate End of a Bloody Great Uncle._ With the period emboldened and enlarged at the end.

“Tyrion, that is _enough_ ,” his father had reprimanded, though it was obvious that even Tywin Lannister was squeamish in the face of such intimate talk. He had cleared his throat and looked at Cersei, who’d sat red-faced across the table with her right hand gripping a knife. Her knuckles turned white.

 “Cersei, please…clean up after yourself.” His sister had opened her mouth to protest – “Father, are you _kidding_ me?!” – but she stopped when Aunt Genna chimed in to redirect the conversation.

“ _Well!_ Let’s say our thanks, then,” she’d said cheerfully, “Who would like to lead us?”

With everyone else still fidgeting awkwardly and looking at their laps, Tyrion had volunteered enthusiastically: _I will happily do the honor, Auntie Genny_. He clasped his hands in mock reverence, and began with his eyes closed but tilted to the heavens.

“Dear Lord, Almighty. Father of all Earth’s children. Savior of sinners and saints, and the Creator of whores and virgins, alike.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion had seen his father’s head snap up, but he had proceeded in his prayer anyways.

 “Thank you for this blessed meal that is about to warm our fat Lannister bellies, and for bringing us all here to bask in its _glorious_ splendor. Thank you for sending your son to die for our transgressions – namely Cersei’s forgetfulness and my ignorance to the feelings of her bleeding hoo-ha. Thank you for forsaking dear Uncle Kevan’s precious life from the mashed potatoes that were blocking his airways just moments ago. And, finally, oh God, _thank you_ for blessing my sister with the gift of womanhood so that we may teach our young Lancel what a _tampon_ is. Amen.”

By the time Tyrion had opened his eyes, Cersei was already up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door shut. Tywin had grounded him on the spot while everyone else had sat like concrete statues, too afraid to laugh or dig in to the food piled high on their plates. Only Jaime had slammed his fist on the table, howling hysterically.

Lancel had squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and was the only one to break the others’ silence.

“Daddy, what’s a tampon?”

Everyone had taken a gulp of wine while Jaime excused himself with tear-streamed cheeks, clutching his stomach and desperately gasping for air.

The Lannisters never did say dinner prayers again.

 

Tyrion spends the next few minutes trying to corral his peas to one side of the plate, but decides his efforts would be better spent acquiring another bottle of beer. The majority of his family is still scurrying around, not paying the least bit of attention to Pycelle’s instructions to sit at the table, _please, sit at the table,_ and so the poor man nearly cries when Tyrion gets up to fetch himself another drink.

“Apologies, old man, but alcohol beckons.”

He opens the fridge but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. The bottles of Pellegrino are still lying unopened in one of the coolers, he remembers – the Lannisters didn’t drink _water_ – and Tyrion sighs before slamming the white door shut.

“Lovely family, have we _really_ consumed all the beer in this house?”

No one hears him amongst the din of clattering china as Pycelle sets their food-filled plates in their proper places. Genna, meanwhile, is pestering Tywin about where they’ll celebrate the impending New Year, and Kevan is desperately searching for a suspiciously missing Lancel. Above all the clamor rings the sudden sound of Uncle Gerion’s wailing from the other room, and Tyrion takes his pitchy screeching as sufficient explanation for the empty fridge. The man is at least twelve bottles deep – he’s singing fucking Mariah Carey, after all.

 _Cigarette_ , Tyrion thinks, fingering the pack of Marlboros in his pockets. Outside he can hear the wind whipping at the windows, and unless he wants to freeze his balls off (which he doesn’t), he’d be wise to find a warmer place to light up. And preferably somewhere indoors so he could stink up the place and piss his sister off, smoking etiquette be damned. Perhaps the smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the house would also make his Father’s face contort into _some_ kind of emotion and replace the eerie disinterest that’s always there. Tyrion dreams of taking the hot butt of his fag and burning a smile into his old man’s face. _There_ , he’d say, _No need to be so sullen, Father._

Tyrion chooses the entryway bathroom as his smoker’s haven, and so he walks in that direction. He’s grown accustomed to his long pants by now and succeeds in staying upright for sixteen entire steps before tripping on the hem. Lifting himself back up, Tyrion can hear the faint noise of labored breaths coming from just behind the bathroom door.

 _Jesus_ , Tyrion thinks, _Did Cersei not finish you off earlier, brother?_ But when he presses his ear to the wood, he doesn’t recognize the stifled moans as Jaime’s (And, _God_ , has he heard him – far too many times; his sibling didn’t believe in silence). They’re too high-pitched, girlish almost. He decides to barge on in anyways and end the private fapping session, yanking the door open with a forceful pull and shoving a fag between his lips. He could _really_ use some fucking nicotine right about now.

On the loo and with a fistful of lavender scented lotion (no doubt a purchase of the blind-as-a-bat Mr. Pycelle), sits Lancel Lannister with his brow furrowed and upper lip glistening in the bathroom light. At the realization that someone is watching him furiously jerk his dick up and down, the boy gasps and reddens, wiping his lubricated hands all over his pants. Tyrion figures it’ll dry all white and crusty, not at all unlike his own dried stain on his right leg, and it makes him laugh. Perhaps there was more Lannister in his cousin than he realized. _Horny bastard._

“I—I, uh, um –,” the boy begins to stammer, but Tyrion holds up a finger before he can pathetically spew out an excuse. He walks to the sink instead, and leans against its hard porcelain surface for support. Lancel’s eyes widen when Tyrion lights his cigarette with an expert flick of his thumb. The flame is warm as he pulls it towards his face and he wonders if he should drop it there, onto the floor, and let the entire townhouse burn to the ground. Instead, though, he puts it back in his pocket.

The smoke slowly wafts up to the ceiling as he inhales, then exhales. Lancel begins to choke and he shakes his head when Tyrion offers him a drag.

“I don’t smoke,” he says.

_Of course you don’t._

 

Tyrion remembers being just eleven years old when Jaime caught him rifling through his drawers in search of a pack of Camels. It had been late on a rainy Tuesday night, and he’d watched some crime show on TV that’s only distinguishing factor was the city in which it took place (Miami! Los Angeles! Chicago!). This particular series took place in a smokey Brooklyn basement where the good guys came to bust the mobster bad guys. It had the typical cop drama fodder: illicit poker playing, fat cigarette smoking, big-boobed Italian ladies sitting seductively on tubby men’s laps. _Hey_ , Tyrion had mused, _That looks cool. I should give it a go._ And so he’d gone in search of some cigarettes with the image of these fat criminals rubbing their grubby hands along women’s hips. The girl, he’d figured, could be found later when he called the Indian neighbor, Tysha, and asked her if she wanted to come play a few rounds of Go-Fish. _Easy._

 (Tyrion had always been drawn to the characters the audience wasn’t supposed to like, the guiltless serial killer or the masked bank robber. He felt bad for them, these characters – even the scarred villains deserved at least a shred of love.)

 Where his sister would have screamed and slapped him for even stepping foot in her room, Jaime had simply shrugged and thrown him a red Bic. Tyrion had tried to light the thing himself but it had hurt when his skin swept against the ridged metal. He’d liked the noise of the contact between his finger and the lighter, though. He’d always liked the noise.

“Here. Like this,” Jaime had instructed, striding across the room, and taking out a cigarette of his own, “Just like that,” he had said, the end of it sparking to life. He had handed it to Tyrion – _Go on, then –_ and moved to open the bedroom window.

“Cers will be pissed later when she smells the smoke,” he had smirked, the London rain beating down heavily upon the sidewalk below them, “She says it gives her hives.”

Tyrion had only nodded and taken a seat on Jaime’s bed, ignoring his brother's comment. He blew a gust of smoke into the air, and hoped it’d linger there long after he was gone.

“Okay,” he’d retorted coolly and nonchalantly. Jaime simply rolled his eyes and slid the window shut again.

“Fine. If you want to deal with her all pissed off tomorrow morning...”

Back then, Tyrion hadn’t questioned why Cersei would be in their brother’s bedroom so late at night, smelling the remains of his illicit cigarette smoking. He’d merely continued to exhale and inhale, coughing here and there and pretending he had a royal flush in his left hand and a woman’s tit in his right. It had tasted disgusting but he'd pretended it hadn't because even in its filthy dirt flavor Tyrion had found some redeeming qualities about it. 

When his cigarette had shrunk to a tiny stub, he'd dabbed it out on Jaime’s “World Religions” text book before placing it in his pocket for safekeeping.

 

Lancel pushes himself up from the toilet and fixes his hair with a shaky hand. He refuses to make eye contact with Tyrion and pretends to be transfixed by his reflection in the mirror. He looks like Jaime when he does this, having traded his usual plaid button downs and high wasted pants for more casual-cool fair. Tyrion pities him for this: _Won’t make her like you anymore, cos._

“You wanna know something, Lance?” he asks suddenly. He enjoys being the older one for once, the one with the wisdom and the knowledge that the other lacks. It's a different sort of feeling, being regarded as the elder and taken seriously, and he thinks of Jaime tossing him that red Bic. _Like this._

Lancel looks at Tyrion with concern, as though he’s awaiting a punch or cruel jibe about the way his penis is still hard within his trousers, “Sure…,” he replies hesitantly. His gaze turns to the floor now, eyes squeezing shut like he's wishing himself out of this situation.

Tyrion taps his cigarette, and the ash falls like black snow, a light dusting on the white sink bowl. It’s pretty, he thinks, in an ugly sort of way.

“The only smell Cersei hates more than smoke,” he begins between drags, “Is the smell of _lavender_.”

He winks conspirationally, and Lancel blushes once more, places his hands over his crotch to conceal his stubborn boner. He rushes out the door in a tizzy, and Tyrion tries to come up with another joke, but the boy is down the hall by the time he thinks of anything. He finishes off two more fags before returning to the dining room.


	5. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: abortion is discussed in this chapter.
> 
> Very, very small reference to a one-shot I wrote about young!Cersei and young!Rhaegar called "Somewhere".

Cersei is in the women’s bathroom, dabbing a damp paper towel across Taena Merryweather’s forehead.

She can’t remember how she got here, or why her friend is on the verge of unconsciousness with vomit trickling down her chin, but she has a sneaky suspicion that it’s all Tyrion’s fault. It always was.

Dinner had not run smoothly, as any person with a grain of common sense might have predicted. Gather ten Lannisters into a room together with glasses and bellies full of wine, and unpleasant things were _bound_ to happen.

Their fine holiday meal – so painstakingly prepared by Mr. Pycelle (the man was half-blind, after all; couldn’t even distinguish between a rolling pin and a vibrator) – had been served alongside a fine assortment of eloquently phrased insults. By the time the meal was finished, everyone had gorged themselves on turkey, bread, and, perhaps, most of all, a hearty serving of mutual loathing _._ After being sufficiently stuffed with such delicacies, they had each retired to the living room without a single word, clenching their fists and cursing each other under their breaths.

 

Hate has such a strange taste to it – the way it’s hard to swallow but comes up so damn easily – and when Cersei has her fill, she finds herself in want of a man and an expensive handle of liquor to cleanse her palate. Tonight, however, she settles for Davis’ Alehouse and Taena.

Cersei vaguely recalls knocking on Taena’s door, her friend opening it with a grand swing and two glasses of wine in hand (white for herself, red for Cersei). In her slinky black number, Taena had the curves that Cersei lacked, an innate sexiness that she once thought she’d had, back before she moved to the other side of the world with a schoolgirl’s naiveté. _So much potential…_

 The way the woman’s breasts were practically spilling out of her dress had made Cersei want to…

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up.”

“Ugh. _Give me that_.” Cersei had chugged the glass and the rest of the bottle within five minutes. It melted the chill off her shoulders.

Taena had offered her some more cocaine after that – “Just take it; I’m up to my ears in the shit” – but Cersei had politely declined with the drunken wave of her hand. She could still feel all the lines she’d taken earlier, burning the insides of her nostrils, and the thought of snorting anything else made spots of black creep into her vision. It felt good though, the burn; it reminded her of fire, and she’d always liked fire. _(I’ll take you somewhere…)_

“Suit yourself.”

Her friend had scurried off to the bathroom to fetch the drugs, dress scrunched up in the back so that her panties were almost visible (black and white with a bit of lace) _._ If Cersei hadn’t been preoccupied with the catastrophe she’d just escaped from, she might have followed Taena down the hallway and had her way with her. _You’re mine tonight. Do as I say._ (Taena would surrender – she always surrendered, and Cersei would want to feel someone’s skin mold beneath her fingers. She’d need to feel in _control_ of something after everything that had happened tonight.)

 When Cersei heard the sniff and deep exhale that followed it, she had thanked God, Allah, Buddha, _Who-the-fuck-ever_ for giving her someone who actually understood what no one else did. How sometimes it just felt _good_ to destroy what belonged to you, to know you had the power to love it and then tear all it apart whenever you desired. Life may reek of shit, but as long as you stuffed your nose with angel dust, it could all smell like pretty roses in the end. You could deceive yourself into thinking it was okay, that _you_ were okay.

“Let’s go dancing!” she had yelled, suddenly claustrophobic in Taena’s tiny flat. She had wanted to leave, fuck something up, and make it hers for the night.

 The next thing Cersei knew, they were driving through downtown London, swerving from lane to lane and nearly hitting two Priuses and a cab. She had touched Taena beneath her dress, one hand on the wheel and the other on her friend’s crotch, while cars honked all around them.

“Shit, Cersei,” Taena had giggled, also far too high to care about the curses and fingers being thrown their way. She had closed her eyes to concentrate on Cersei’s nimble fingers, the way they were playing her like a guitar, and she had sighed into the night as they ran red after red.

 

But this is where Cersei’s memory ends and all becomes a distorted blur of laughter and moaning and road-side puking. There might have been a taxi driver (she thinks) and perhaps a kind Norwegian gentleman who’d directed them to wherever the fuck they are now. (Did she give him her number when he asked? She can’t remember.)

  They are not at the club, that much Cersei knows for certain. The people here are different, rougher around the edges, and they all smell of beer, not bleach and sex and money. She doesn’t recognize the graffiti covering the walls, either. Her initials should be scrawled just over the mirror, alongside John or Jake or whatever that guy’s name was from two years ago, but instead “ARE YOU READY FOR THE LORD?” is written in its place.

“C’mon, T, _c’mon_.” She shakes Taena’s body, “T! Wake _up_!”

Cersei looks at the question looming above her – “ARE YOU READY” – and she wants to spit in its direction and peel it off the walls until her fingernails bleed. Fuck the Lord and all the preparations she was supposed to make for His “second coming” – was _He_ ready for _Her_? The minute her heart stops beating, Cersei thinks, she’ll march up to the Big Guy and violently shake her fists in the air, asking him why, why, why, why, _why_.

 _Why_ is Taena so hideously drunk? _Why_ is the coke screwing with her head like this? _Why_ is she here and not with Jaime? Why is winter cold, why does Frisch’s only pay $350 for a commercial, why do thugs steal from senior citizens - _why is life so goddamn disappointing?_

But “why” is a cruel question, Cersei reminds herself, and no matter how many times you shout the word up at that big blue sky, it will never be answered, then and there, like you want it to be.

The “why’s” are almost as deafening as the silence, and she thinks her ears might start bleeding, that she’ll collapse, that her heart will fail and they’ll find her dead on the bathroom floor, just another tragedy.

“You are on your own,” her father had told her once, “Trust no one. Expect nothing from anyone, ever. The minute a man denies his aloneness is the minute he becomes a dumb, blind fool.” And he’d been right.

 There are no solutions written in the coke dust. The Metallica song playing on the stereo and the words scrawled all over the walls are as insightful as a dead fly on a windowsill. Cersei’s life and all the “why’s” rested within her, on her own damn shoulders. _It’s all fallen on me._

  _Let the Lord stay put and keep his fucking silence_ , she tells herself; she would let the “why’s” cut her deep until she was nothing but the pieces of who she once was. Cersei isn’t whole, will never _truly_ be whole, because everything she’s ever loved has been stolen from her. They’ve been replaced with empty fucking “why’s” written on dirty bathroom walls and it’s her fault, it’s all her fault. This is how it is, this is her life, and she asks for it all because her aloneness is the only thing she has, all else taken from her before it was actually something she could call her own.

_Who needs wholeness, anyways?_

 

They took the boy from her on a cold morning in early March. The walls had been white – the sky even more so – and Cersei had found it ironic that the world should be so devoid of color on the day when nothingness would swallow her completely. Funny, almost, how even darkness had hidden itself on that spring morning.

The nurse had smelled like antiseptic, and her hair had been tinged the faintest blue, like the pale skin of a corpse. Cersei had known she would never forget that horrendous smell, that hideous color – death, the both of them.

She let her do it – she'd _had_ to let her do it – and after the deed had been done, Cersei had not shed a single tear.  _I will not cry for them._ A mother might weep for her children, but Cersei was no mother. That had now been taken from her, too.

It had made her angry, the way the lady had looked at her – with so much pity and worry and those fucking “I’m sorry” eyes that did nothing good for anyone, least of all herself. The kid was still dead and Cersei was still empty, and no matter how many times the nurse apologized or rubbed her back, everything was still white and her hair was still fucking blue. Death and death. _I will not cry for them._

The joke of it all was that Cersei had wanted the child. When her brother came home in February for their birthday, she’d asked him for it as though it were a simple gift.

“Please, J,” she’d whispered, “I want this. I need this.” Her twin had paused silently, studying her face to see if it was all just a silly joke, one of her actressy games that she sometimes played with him, but he’d found no trace of falseness. Jaime gave her what she wanted that night, one of the few who ever would.

“Okay.”

 

A month later, when Cersei had gotten home from the clinic, she looked in the mirror and started screaming. “You golden fool _”,_ she had yelled at her reflection, “What have you _done_?” She ran to the kitchen and grabbed the scissors, ready to rid herself of the thing that had made it all impossible, the thing that reminded her of why she’d done what she had. What good was gold when it only bought you pain and shame?

 _Cut it all_ , she thought to herself. _You golden fool, cut it all off._ But as soon as the first inch had fallen to the floor, she couldn’t go any farther, and she’d thrown the scissors down on the table. Instead, she’d trekked to the liquor store to grab some Skol (she didn’t care what she drank; she’d wanted her throat raw so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone all week) and wrote Jaime an email.

_I took kare of it. I’m sorry._

“Care” with a fucking “k”. He’d never responded.

Cersei had snorted coke for the first time the next day – her trainer told her the number of his dealer– and she’d liked how she couldn’t  properly smell or see a single thing when the powdery shit was up her nose and in her head. She did it the day after that and the one after that, too, until it wasn’t even about the child anymore. It was simply her life, another “why” with no answer.

 

And so, here she is. Cersei Lannister: thirty fucking two and high on coke, drunk on wine, holding the limp body of a plastered friend – alone, practically unemployed, a sorry fucking mess. The gravity of it all – the patheticness and the irony, _God_ , the _irony_ – hits her like a pile of bricks to the chest. (“ARE YOU READY…”)

 _It’s the coke, it’s the coke. You’re losing it; you’re fine,_ she reminds herself. But even her own mental reassurances ring hollow inside her head. It isn’t the goddamn blow and, in truth, it isn’t Tyrion, either. She _isn’t_ fine or good _or_ happy. She hates herself for it, every last bit of it – _You golden fool. What have you_ done _?_ – and she wants to slam her head into the mirror, feel the glass carve her into something new. She wants to see her reflection in the shards and sweep all her bloody broken bits away into the trash can. _To hell with it all._

“Fuck it,” she says aloud, dropping Taena to the floor and walking out of the bathroom. The girl can wake up alone, for all she cares now, and ask herself if _she’s_ “READY FOR THE LORD”, too.

 When Cersei stumbles her way to the bar, a man strides up to her side with a toothpick lodged between his lips. There’s a glass in his right hand with the last remaining drops of a brown, amber liquid still sloshing at the bottom. Whiskey, she knows, and when his words come out slurred, her guess is only confirmed. For a minute, she thinks of her father.

 When he speaks, his toothpick wags in different directions like a pointy stick-tongue, and Cersei imagines snapping it in half with one hand.

“Hey there, love. I’ve not seen you here before.”

All Cersei can do then is put her hands on the bar and laugh. The man – “Jerry, Jerry from Peckham,” he calls himself – is fat and reeking of gasoline, covered in kitschy tattoos of Betty Boop and Marilyn Monroe. He shouldn’t be talking to her - men like him weren’t supposed to talk to women like her.

 _What an idiot,_ she thinks to herself, _Why tattoo the face of a girl who OD’d on your fucking arm?_ Why immortalize failure and disappointment on your body when it was already plastered everywhere around you, coming out of your ears and your eye sockets and oozing out of your mouth? Hell, Jerry could simply look at his stained, rotting teeth and come face to face with his own stinking failure. _Doesn’t need to drown himself in it, for chrissakes._

Cersei almost pities Jerry from Peckham for his stupid ignorance, but then she realizes they are one and the same – disappointment and disappointment – and suddenly he isn’t one to be pitied or laughed at.  Her heart sinks and she thinks of the boy she never held, the mother she lost, and the lover she can’t ever have.

She sits on one of the bar stools and lets Jerry buy her a drink.


	6. Jaime

 

He hears her the minute they walk into the bar.

The door slams shut behind them as the wind nips at their asses one final time, and Jaime wants to run in the other direction when the sound reaches him. Tyrion is at his side, grumbling about why the _hell_ they’ve come to rescue someone who doesn’t want to be rescued, and the hem of his too-long pants are wet with snow.

“She doesn’t even _deserve_ to be rescued,” he says petulantly and, for a minute, Jaime actually feels like the older brother, taking responsibility. “Let’s grab a seat and call it a night. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No.” Jaime replies tersely, though he thinks a drink might actually bring him a sense of clarity. He ignores the dryness of his mouth.

“But I can’t feel my bloody toes!”

By the time Tyrion voices his complaint, however, Jaime is already charging through a throng of strangers clad in fake leather jackets. Every time they move or jostle against each other’s bodies, there is the crinkling of plastic and odorous scent of rubber. A man in a long, oily ponytail turns around angrily when Jaime steps on his left heel. But when he looks his offender up and down – dress shirt, dress pants, neat blonde hair – he grunts gruffly and redirects his gaze back to the stage. No need to fight the pretty boy.

There are hoots and cat calls bouncing off the walls, but, above all, there is the screeching of a dying animal.

“YOU MUST BE MY LUCKY STAAAAAAAR.”

The singer is doing no justice to the Madonna song, what with her cracking voice and faux-girly shrills. She keeps messing up the lyrics, fumbling over certain lines, and it’s painful to listen to.

 Jaime has never heard her like this before, his sister, and he doesn’t recognize the body that’s prancing around onstage, so willingly giving herself to other people for _their_ enjoyment. (She always hates it when people look at her like something other than a human being, an animal in a cage, but she doesn’t seem to mind tonight.)

Her hair is a tangled mess, and though it shoots out from her head as it did fifteen years ago, all golden rays, Jaime thinks she looks the farthest thing from the sun. In fact, she doesn’t look like much of anything except a booze-eroded shell that someone could easily pick up and throw into the ocean.

“When the fuck did this happen?” he asks Tyrion, who is standing shell-shocked to his left (though not without a grin upon his face).

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he yells back. Jaime isn’t quite sure what he means, either, but he feels desperate and hopeless and that he’s witnessing something no one was meant to see. He always stumbles across shit that isn’t for him – first _100% Beef_ , now this. All he can think to do is ask _what, when, how_ , and _why_.

 _“This!”_ he says instead. Jaime flings his maimed hand at the stage – the Heroic One, the one that killed his enemies and saved children’s lives but couldn’t resist the heat of green and golden flames – and his voice breaks when the words leave his mouth.

“When did our sister become such a talented singer, you mean? Why, she’s always been gifted, dear brother.” Tyrion turns to face Jaime, craning his neck upwards so that he somehow looks inches taller than he did just moments before. From the expression that’s playing across his lips, Jaime knows to brace himself for one of the clever, little man’s clever, little zingers, “I’m actually surprised you don’t know this. You make her _sing_ all the time, do you not?”

Jaime means to keep his cool, shake it off, and tell his little brother that this isn’t the time, isn’t the place, but instead he grabs the imp by the collar and lifts his body off the floor. Tyrion’s feet dangle helplessly in the air, but he only laughs and chuckles something about “roughness” and “aggression”. Their noses are inches away from each other, one perfectly aligned and the other still scarred from a playground fight long ago, and Jaime sees his reflection in the mismatching eyes staring back at him. It’s strange – though oddly comforting at the same time – to be able to find a piece of himself in someone other than his twin. Proof that he exists outside of her.

“Fuck you.”The curse comes out dead and he doesn’t mean it, doesn’t know why he even says it. He can never stay mad at his little brother ( _I care about you, Tyrion_ ). Jaime shakes his head and throws him down again, snaking his way to the front of the crowd.

As he approaches, he calls her name. Cersei whips her head up, then, and he sees her eyes – so green, like emeralds, so much like his own – and notices how they shine with fire while the rest of her lays dead. For some reason this small spark of life disturbs him more than that fact that she’s up there, parading around in a ripped t-shirt (it wasn’t ripped before) with disgusting old men egging her on. He almost wishes that her eyes were dark and empty like everything else, so that he doesn’t have to look at her and see bits of the girl she once was. His sister, his beautiful twin. _This isn’t her._

“Show us your tits!” a man cries out to the glee of many others. A few beers are raised, their contents sloshing all over the place and landing on the hardwood with a _splat._

“Yeah! Take off your shirt, sweetheart!” someone else yells through cupped hands, “DO IT!” The entire mob hollers in agreement, echoing each other’s sentiments with whistles and a rowdy round of applause.

“TITS! TITS! SHOWUSYOURTIIIITS,” a chant begins, and Jaime whips around to identify the instigator (to punch the pervert in the face or to merely glare at him, he doesn’t know; he simply just feels the need to _act_ ). But as soon as he cranes his ear towards the sound, he recognizes the call as Tyrion’s, shouting from beneath everyone else while thrusting an iPhone up in the air, “SHOWUSYOURTIIIITS. YOU’LL BE FAMOUS, CERS.” The phone is recording the entire scene, and when Tyrion proceeds to shout something about “millions of hits on YouTube,” Jaime can’t help but almost laugh. He immediately feels guilty about it afterwards.

Though admittedly hilarious, there’s something horrendously tragic about the sight of his sister drunkenly belting out an 80’s pop song. Jaime thinks it’s like one of those games on the back of kids’ menus – _Which of these things doesn’t belong here?_ – but he can’t decide if Cersei or the music is the imposter in the situation.

 She looks so light and fragile, like a puff of air – _and yet_ – there’s a strength there, too, a fierceness that even the cruelest losses have not taken from her. He finds it in the way she carries herself and carelessly throws her body around, so completely controlled but unwound and unbound at the same time. Cersei may slur, but she _knows_ she’s slurring, never trying to correct herself. She doesn’t give a damn, not anymore. This _is_ her – this is her pain, her weakness, her sadness, her everything – and for the first time in her life she’s ripped off her mask and said, “Too hell with it all!” and Jaime has never felt so heartbroken, so embarrassed, so proud.

 _When did this happen?_ he asks himself again. But he knows.

It was always happening, had always _been_ happening. Cersei, in all her schemes and her drama and her fucked up priorities, has always been the strongest of them all in only a way that _she_ could. Just like their mother. ( _You look just like her.)_

“CERSEI,” he yells, louder this time. Jaime wants to grab her, hold her, kiss her all over and tell her that she’s beautiful, so beautiful and it’s okay for her to break and he’s sorry – _shit_ , more than anything he’s _sorry_. He wants to laugh with her even though there’s nothing to laugh at.

 “CERSEI!”

She hears him and looks in his direction, lips pulling back into a dazed smile when she spots his blonde head amongst the bandanas and gangster hats. Cersei sways a bit, nearly losing her balance, but she recovers within moments to shout, “Look, everyone! It’s my _Beautiful_ Little Brother.” She cocks her head to the right as her eyes drift to the miniscule figure standing at Jaime’s side, “ _Oh!_ And the Ugly One.”

 Tyrion takes a sarcastic bow and, from the look on her face, it’s as if she’s eaten something sour.

“Ugly Brother, come up here with me!” It takes her far too long to form the words on her tongue and they come out warbled, the poison in them dissolving at the mispronunciation of “brother” (“Brufther!”). Jaime’s heart drops.

He watches as Tyrion, confused but still relatively unfazed, walks to her, with a pep in his step and his head held stubbornly high – _You can’t hurt me, Cersei_. Jaime doesn’t understand how Tyrion does it, how he can brush Cersei off like a pile of dust, amused, indifferent, and entirely unaffected. Jaime has never had that ability, no matter how many times he’s insisted that he does. Cersei’s words always cut him deep; they stay there like little pink scars, pieces of her that paint his skin permanently.

Tyrion makes eye contact with Jaime – _I got this_ – as he ascends the stairs and steps into the shine of the spotlight. Dust motes are flying all around, visible in the great beam, and he coughs awkwardly while swatting them away. He lifts his hand to block the glare.

“Entertain my friends, little brother,” Cersei plays to the crowd with a disturbing amount of childish glee, “Has anyone seen a midget dance?”

The room resounds in eager “no’s”, and they’re tinged with anticipation at the prospect of a spectacle.

“It’s _quite_ a sight, I assure you. Go on, Tyrion, _do it_. Show us how those little legs of yours can move so gracefully.” All remains still and silent until their brother makes a comeback with his signature gusto.

“I’m afraid, dear sister, that I’m nowhere _near_ as skilled a dancer as you. Your pals have no interest in seeing _me_ dance. I have neither the tits nor the ass to recommend me…though I guess you’re rather _lacking_ in those departments these days as well, hmm?” He makes a loud sniffing noise and his joke busts up a few of the audience members. He’s playing the crowd as much as she, but Jaime knows it’s only to turn the tables and get her off the stage. Cersei folds her arms and sticks her hip out, a bossy little girl trying to get her way.

“Oh, _right_. I forgot to mention that he’s my _Witty_ , Ugly Little Brother,” Cersei looks at him with the type of passivity one might show a dead animal on the side of the road – _A pity you’re here, but it’s got naught to do with me._ She has neither the fucks to give nor the energy to even formally scowl at the sibling she loathes. It’s like he’s nothing, just vacant space, and it’s making Jaime cringe. He doesn’t like it when she says and does these things that make him hate her.

“You’re not much good at anything, _are you_ , Tyrion?”

The dwarf shines a smile on the crowd, but Jaime can tell it’s now forced and paper-thin, not delighted like it was before. The humor of the situation is fading fast, and it’s all in the way Tyrion maintains his steadfast gaze upon their sister.

“Except at reminding us of what we’ve given up.” She spits the last few words like an obscenity, “To have _you_.”

Jaime doesn’t like where this is going, or the way his siblings are glowering at one another. Cersei looks exhausted, like its taking every ounce of her strength to continue playing this game, while Tyrion stares up at her with a mixture of sadness and pity.

 _You’ll only enrage her even more, Tyrion_ , Jaime thinks. But Cersei’s too drunk and her eyes are so glazed that she’s blind to everything and everyone around her.

Jaime knows he should do something – _anything_ – to intervene and stop this nonsense, but his feet remain planted where they are. _It’s fine; it’ll be over soon._ (Why is it that he’s always so afraid to acknowledge Cersei’s messes?)

“Are you glad that you survived, Tyrion?”

The entire audience is confused, shouting “what’s” and “huh’s” , but his twin doesn’t seem to hear them. Tyrion stares at her. And he stares at her.

“Are you _glad_ that Mother died for you? _Are you?_ When you look at yourself in the mirror, _Tyrion_ , do you thank God that he spared you and your deformed little body? Traded an angel for a monster?

Cersei quickly cuts him off before he can answer, “Actually, _no_. I have another question.” She struggles to say the words correctly, “Tell me, _little brother_ , how does it feel to know that you were allowed to live, while my son – _my son_ – could not?” Cersei chokes when she says “son”.

Jaime can hear and feel his own heartbeat in his ears. A phone is ringing in the distance somewhere, and a woman’s voice is crackling over the receiver,

“Jaime, I’m pregnant.”

The sentence and the noise she makes at its end dissolve into the air, then, and is replaced with the resonance of a loud _ding!_ A new inbox message: _I took kare of it I’m sorry._ Kare, kare, kare, kare.

 _Jaime, I’m pregnant_.

           

“Cersei, I—” Tyron starts, but she interrupts him a second time.

            “An abomination, they’d say…” His twin laughs the emptiest laugh Jaime has ever heard, and he knows he’ll still hear it hours from now, following him wherever he goes. “But the funny thing is…I can’t think of an abomination any greater than you.”

Tyrion looks out awkwardly at the sea of perplexed faces beneath them. There’s no use fighting back; this needs to end, and he knows it.

 “Sister, I fear that you’ve lost our audience!” Everyone grumbles, and Tyrion’s jape falls so flat, it nearly squashes him whole, right then and there, on the stage. Cersei pays it no mind but continues talking to herself. Her eyes glisten, but the tears remain unshed, like they always do. _Cersei may want to cry_ , Jaime thinks, _but she’s forgotten how to._

“Joffrey,” she says wistfully, “I was going to name him Joffrey. I don’t know why. Just liked the name, I guess…

“He would’ve been a little toe-head,” she smiles at the ground and then looks up at Jaime. _Please, J. I want this, I need this. (Okay.) Jaime, I’m pregnant. I took kare of it. I’m sorry._

He sees that her skin has turned white, like a ghost’s (and Jaime knows what ghosts look like – he sees them all the time), and the flames in her eyes dim just a little.

“She’s gonna puuuuuke!” someone screams – and Cersei does, all over the stage and onto the couple standing at its base. By the time they raise their arms as a shield, it’s too late, the vomit already seeping into the collars of their shirts and dripping from their hair. Luckily, their fake leather jackets appear to be barf-resistant, and so most merely slides down their backs to the floor.

Jaime quickly shoves people aside and pushes his body to the front. He hops on the giant platform in one swift jump and throws Cersei over his shoulders, not even listening to the cackles and curses echoing around him (“Hey, man! What the fuck?”). Tyrion follows his lead, grabbing the mic.

“Aaaaaaaand, that’s our show, folks! Come back next week, and my sister will piss on your heads instead! Happy fucking Christmas!” Someone gives him the finger and yells that he’s Jewish, not Christian.

Jaime is already at the door when he hears the microphone shriek, and he knows his little brother is trailing fast behind him. There’s a shout from the bar that carries itself all the way to where he stands outside, fumbling with his keys to unlock the car door.

“ _WAIT_ ,” the voice cries in disappointment, “So we don’t getta see her tits?”

 Flurries fall from the night sky as Jaime lays Cersei across the backseat.

 “Taena…” she whispers, but he ignores the comment and buckles her in.

 


	7. Tyrion

“Do you have a Sharpie in here?”

Tyrion is rummaging around in the glove compartment box, hands grazing over the piles of papers and condom wrappers stuffed inside it. He laughs at the purple Trojan foils he finds thrown carelessly between the car manual books and scratched Bob Dylan CD’s. Their tiny, violet packages – _Maximum sensation! Maximum pleasure!_ \- don’t rival the gold Magnums that Tyrion uses for himself.

_I could fuck Cersei better than you ever could, brother._

Tyrion comes up empty handed, no writing utensil – sharpie or otherwise – to be found amongst the clutter. He flips the compartment shut with his bare foot. (He had taken off his pants the minute he sat down – _Fuck this_ – and so now he sits comfortably in his boxers, all Christmas wreaths and ornaments.)

“No,” Jaime finally says far too late, his voice eerily distant, “Why would I have a goddamn Sharpie?” He hasn’t spoken much since the three of them had escaped the mayhem at Davis’ and piled into the car (well, the _two_ of them; the third party had no choice in the matter). Tyrion doesn’t blame him, though. Ghosts – especially unborn ones, the would-be Joffrey’s – are enough to spook anyone, even an army soldier, into silence. Their phantom fingers rip the very breath out of you so that you’re gasping, eyes widened in terror, because you’ve seen something that you once had but lost long ago.

 Tyrion finds that he’s more than making up for the quiet, anyways, rambling on about this and that. He wants the memory of his sister’s shaking voice out of his head, and he’s saying whatever rubbish comes to mind.

“Dammit,” he curses, “I wanted to draw a penis on her face.” Tyrion twists his body around so that he can see his sister lying unconscious behind them. With her eyes closed and body so still, Cersei looks like a different person entirely, like she could never hurt a fly or say horrible things to a younger sibling without remorse. Her head rests on her hands, a pose for an innocent child, not a woman grown – and certainly not for Cersei.

 _My son_. The words had come out so full of anguish, Tyrion hadn’t understood what she’d said at first. He’d only been able to process the sound of that pain, the way it pierced the air like the dragging of fingernails on a chalkboard, and how it didn’t sound right, coming from her. Cersei was hard as stone, cold as ice, and as unforgiving as fire – she didn’t _feel_ , didn’t crumble; she didn’t retch on the words “my son”. But she had, she’d done exactly that, and Tyrion knew it had become his own invisible specter, clutching his hand in its dead-cold grasp for the rest of his life.

He turns back around so that he’s facing the road again and, in the headlights, the snow looks as though it’s flying at them like tiny needles. They drop and zoom, all together and seemingly endless, at the windshield.

 _Poke my fucking eyes out,_ he finds himself wishing. (He’d give anything to rid himself of these bloody images, too.)

_Come up here, Ugly Brother._

_You’re not much good at anything…_

_What we’ve given up…_

_Are you_ glad _…_

_My son…_

My son, my son, my son, _my son_. Tyrion feels guilty suddenly and he doesn’t know why. He’s done nothing, isn’t a part of the disaster that’s unfolded before the Alehouse crowd tonight; it’s his siblings that are at fault for once, the disappointments...

“Beautiful, golden fools”, everyone had called them after their illicit jaunt in Paris. _And beautiful and golden and foolish they are, indeed,_ Tyrion muses.

Tyrion turns on the radio with a fervent push of a sausage-link finger – _Noise, noise, noise; I need noise_. “Lucky Star”, of all things, plays loudly over the system and he sees his brother visibly cringe out the corner of his eye. Tyrion taps the button again,

“Never liked Madonna much.”

They sit silently for the next three minutes, Tyrion counting the red and green globes on his underwear - 1, 2, 3, 4 – until Jaime says, without preface:

“Dad’s gay.”

 

Tyrion hates that Jaime calls their father, “Dad.” After all, the moniker fits Tywin Lannister like Tyrion’s corduroy pants had fit _him_ – a big, baggy mess, a mold he could never grow into. It sounds false, like a joke almost, whenever his brother says it: “Dad did this…”, “Dad said that…”, “Did you not hear Dad ask…”

“NO!” Tyrion always wants to scream, “It’s, FATHER. _FATHER.”_

 “Dad” was for men who placed their children on their laps and bounced them up and down. “Dad” was for men who whispered things like “I love you” and “You’re beautiful” into their kids’ little ears, who kissed their cheeks as they lie sleeping in their cribs. “Dad” was not for Tywin Lannister – he was “Father”, only “Father”, and that was all he would ever be to Tyrion.

 

“I know,” Tyrion responds, because he does, truly. He’d read some emails, some texts that he weren’t meant for him, and he’d learned more about the man he called Father and Jaime called Dad than he’d ever wanted to. (It had been so clinical and deeply unromantic, so typical Tywin Lannister – _Meet me in the same place. Ten minutes. Don’t be late._ ) The sentence lies heavily in the space between them – _Dad’s gay_ – and Tyrion tries to think of what to say next, when Jaime starts laughing hysterically.

“The thing is,” he says, shoulders shaking and saliva getting caught in his own throat, “I don’t even _care_. I don’t care about anything anymore,” he continues howling and slams the wheel with his good hand, “Dad’s _gay_.”

Tyrion stares at the ornaments again, having counted thirty three so far. All he can manage is a paltry, “I’m sorry, Jaime.” _For the baby_ , he almost finishes, but he keeps that to himself, doesn’t even want to acknowledge the existence of the thing.

“Don’t give me that shit, Tyrion,” his brother starts, an unnerving calmness in his voice, “Don’t give me your fucking ‘sorry’s’. I don’t want them.”

Cersei begins to stir then, mumbles something unintelligible, and the gagging coming from her throat makes Jaime curse under his breath. He pulls over to the shoulder and gets out of the car, dragging his twin across the leather by the armpits until she’s propped up against his body. She falls to her knees and throws up on the pavement, a torrent of wine and liquor and God knows what else streaming from her mouth. Cersei continues heaving like that for a few moments and when it sounds as though she’s finally done, Tyrion unbuckles and opens the passenger door.

When he steps outside he can barely hear him, but the sound of a broken man has always been unmistakable to Tyrion’s ears. He can’t even feel the chill and the way it’s climbing up and down his bare legs, billowing his boxer shorts out in the wind, because that wretched noise is _there_.

Jaime is sobbing silently, the haggard inhales almost as sharp as the needle-snowflakes drifting from the black, black sky. His eyes are closed tightly and he squeezes them in attempt to force the tears down and off his face. Cersei is still on her hands and knees, bent over the ground and completely oblivious to the man crying – crying _for her_ and for himself and for an unborn child named Joffrey.

The snow crunches beneath Tyrion’s feet as he walks to his brother. Other vehicles slow down to observe the three idiots on the side of the road, but they eventually speed on by, ultimately uninterested. ( _Whooooooosh_ , like they’re washing something clean.)

Tyrion stands on his frost-bitten toes and reaches a hand to touch Jaime’s shoulder, “Get in the car. I’ll handle this.” He takes Cersei’s blonde hair from Jaime’s grasp and holds the long locks back himself, “Go.” 

Jaime doesn’t say anything, but sniffs and abruptly straightens his back, becoming The Strong, Older Brother, _the_ _Warrior_ that he’s supposed to be. But Tyrion sees the way his body collapses when he’s alone in the front seat again. Deflated like a popped balloon and full of sadness, all at the same time.

Cersei pukes a few more times, and the liquid is a weird orange-red hue, “Jesus, Cers, what were you _drinking_ tonight?” he jokes half-heartedly. She pukes a final time and when the bile is dripping down her chin and turning the white beneath her hands a muted tangerine, he laughs out loud.

“You know, Cers, I think I’m going to name my new bitch after you. How does that sound?”

His sister spits and manages to lift her neck to crane it around and look at him. She’s nearly cross-eyed, and Tyrion suddenly feels the urge to piss in his holiday boxers.

“Go… _fuck yourself_ ,” she whispers, and though it’s a struggle for her to say it, the typical Cersei venom is there.

“That’s my girl.”

When he offers her his hand, she accepts it.

 

They pull into the driveway ten minutes later, and the clock reads 3:23 am. The sound of the purring engine dies when Jaime removes the keys from the ignition and rests his head on the back of the seat. He sighs heartily.

“Are you okay?” Tyrion asks.

“I’m fine…Thanks.”

Silence, and then:

“I’m sorry she said those things to you, Tyrion.”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t mean it.”

“Of course not.”

More silence ensues, and at this point, Tyrion just wants to leave, go to fucking bed, and forget all about tonight’s events. The stench of vomit in the air is enough to make him never want to drink a sip of alcohol at Davis’ ever again.

“You’ve always loved her more than she deserves,” Tyrion says, getting out of the car. He doesn’t mean for his brother to hear him, but he does and in the end he’s happier for it.

Jaime stares back with those piercing emerald eyes, still sitting motionless at the steering wheel. A melancholic smile takes form across his face, “I’m the only one who would.”

A split second later, he continues, “Do you love her, Tyrion? After everything she’s said and done, do you love her?”

Tyrion sticks his head in the doorway to look at Cersei once more. She’s fallen asleep again, in the same position that she’d been in before and she’s snoring gently. So innocent, so beautiful – _somehow_. When Tyrion sees her likes this, he wants to say “yes, of course, I love her”. But when he thinks back to the bar, he wants to say “no, no, I don’t” and punch someone in the goddamn nose. Neither reply seems like it would be right answer.

Instead of responding, Tyrion looks straight ahead at his father’s townhome, the windows all dark and the Christmas lights shining on the shrubbery. Most of London is asleep by this time, and little children will wake in a few hours to see what Father Christmas has left under their trees. He remembers Christmas morning from 2004, all three grown Lannister kids bounding down the staircase as if they were twelve, twelve, and three again.

Since they were small, Cersei had always been the first one to the tree, insisting that she give out the gifts _she’d_ bought for the family (with Father’s money, of course) before they opened “Santa’s” presents. The passage of time had not changed this tradition.

“Tyrion, this one is yours…” She’d handed him a finely wrapped package, a smile on her face and eyes sparkling like gemstones, “Open it!”

Tyrion had ripped the paper off in three big tears until a pink cardboard box was resting on the ground before him. He picked it up and examined it closely, while Jaime had howled and Tywin had rolled his eyes. (“My _children_.”)

“Tampons,” Tyrion had said seriously, “You gave me Playtex tampons for Christmas.”

“You’re welcome, little brother.”

He and Cersei had laughed until their cheeks were wet and tears had blurred their vision.

 

Tyrion grins back at Jaime when he shakes away the memory of that cold, December morning, finally knowing how to answer his question: _Do you love her, Tyrion? After everything…do you love her?_

“She’s my sister,” he says, and he makes his way to the front door.


	8. The Golden Trio

 

Upon staggering through the entryway with Cersei propped against their bodies for support, Lancel had run to his precious female cousin and asked if she was okay, asleep, or dead.

“Dead, _dead_? Is she _dead_?– to which Tyrion had replied, “Keep it in your fucking pants, Lance. She’s fine.” Lancel’s eyes remained widened in fear.

He had looked like a tiny, little boy, clad in his powder blue pajama set (from Genna, no doubt) and slippers monogrammed in swirly cursive. He was lanky, the kid, all bones and skinny limbs, and it didn’t appear that he would ever outgrow his gangly awkwardness. Jaime pitied him almost, knew what it was like to be a little runt who fancied he was something far superior than what he was. Jaime had once been a young boy, too, after all.

 

He could remember the day he’d gotten his braces, blue-black-blue-black like his favorite rugby team, at the tender age of fifteen. When he’d returned home from the orthodontist, Tyrion had asked why he’d looked like the street-side rapper over on Pendleton – “Should  I get those thingys on teefs, too, Jaime?” Contrastingly, Cersei had regarded him coolly from the sofa, arms crossed and with a trace of sympathy in her eyes.

“Armor for your mouth,” she had said, while a seven year old Tyrion gabbed about acquiring a golden tooth.

Jaime had thought it unfair that they should have two completely different sets of teeth while being twins, mirror images in every other way. Where Cersei’s were straight as could be, lined in a perfect row of gleaming white, Jaime’s had been crooked and jutting out where they weren’t supposed to…All of his pictures in his earliest years show him with a gentle, close-lipped smile while is Cersei beside him, teeth showing proudly. (Once his braces were removed and they grew older, this switched. Jaime became charismatic Head Boy, Cersei the all-business president of the Women's Rights Club.)

“Sharp like lion fangs,” she had finished.

 

The pain was unbearable some nights, but Jaime never cried – Lannisters were not criers and if they did happen to shed a few tears, it was always in secret, behind a locked door – but awaited the familiar sound of footsteps outside his door. When Cersei came to his room late at night it was always with a glass of fresh ice water in hand, cubes clinking against one another like a welcome song. _Clank, clang, clank –_ it was their own little lullaby, and its icy notes sang of endless nights full of warm kisses and identical flesh against identical flesh.

 Cersei would sit on top of him, her legs wrapped around his torso, and pour the liquid ever so slowly down his throat. _Drip, drip, drip_ , a blissful water torture that Jaime was more than willing to endure each and every night. The coldness always numbed his soreness the minute it reached his teeth, though sometimes his mouth still stung when his sister leaned down to kiss him. She wasn’t one for gentleness.

“Does it hurt?” she’d ask, smiling, as if his discomfort was amusing to her (Cersei always got off on other’s pain, and while this malevolent streak freaked Jaime out a little, it mostly just turned him on.). She’d nip at his lip.

“A little,” he’d concede, before she kissed him again, this time running her tongue over the colored brackets fastened to his teeth. His braces had been tight, but his hands had worked furiously to loosen Cersei’s pajama top – he wanted run his _own_ tongue along _her_ body. His sister’s mouth was ice cold from having taken a sip of the water, and the sensation had left him hard beneath the covers. He’d always slept naked on the evenings he knew Cersei would be visiting.

“What about now,” she’d asked again, “Does it hurt now?” She kissed him a third time.

“No.”

A lie, but he’d just wanted her to keep going.

“Good.”

Cersei had taken one of the ice cubes from the glass in between her lips, pulled back the sheets, and dragged it slowly down his chest. He had squirmed beneath her, and she’d giggled playfully – _Shhh, J, shhh. You’ll wake Father._ She kissed him all over, and he’d wondered where she’d learned all this, how she knew just how to make him come undone. Fleetingly, he’d attributed it to a certain Targaryen boy, but he’d pushed the thought out of his mind.

 When he finished, he’d followed suit, gliding a remaining cube along her panty line until his tongue was ice cold, and he kissed her in the place that made her putty in his hands. His braces had made it awkward, at first, but he’d eventually gotten the hang of it and Cersei had never complained. Their nights always ended with her singing their own closing lullaby as well.

More times than not, Jaime would wake the next morning, teeth and gums still throbbing. But it wouldn’t matter – as long as his twin was lying next to him.

 

Jaime had jumped back to the present, then, and seen Lancel tilt his head to the side and wrinkle his brow.

“Why are you in your boxers?” Lancel had asked Tyrion, glancing at the festive underwear in typical Lannister disgust. Looking at it more closely, Jaime had laughed – in the darkness, the imp could have been wearing a pattern of red and green ball sacs for all anyone knew.  

“Why are you wearing your mother’s pajamas?” Tyrion had retorted back. He had walked past Lancel, dragging Cersei along behind him, as his cousin had declared their rooms had already been taken by other relatives.

“I’ve got dibs on the recliner,” Lancel had said matter-of-factly, pointing to the leather chair covered with rumpled blankets. It had still been in its upright position, not even fully reclined like it was supposed to be.

 _Freak_ , Tyrion thought, _Like a mummy or some shit_. He had imagined wrapping his cousin in heaps of toilet paper later on, around and around and around until he was a giant caterpillar in its cocoon. Maybe he’d even wipe his ass with the stuff before binding his cousin in it.

“There’s an air mattress on the living room floor for you three. You all can sleep there.”

“Jolly good,” Tyrion had huffed, “I don’t want your jizz soaked recliner anyways.”

He and Jaime had made their way down the hallway and through the kitchen to find the airless queen-sized bed on the carpet. Cersei was with them the whole time, slowly reviving and showing signs of life again.

“I’m taking the middle,” Tyrion had said, “Don’t even _think_ about trying anything.”

Jaime laughed and Cersei had plopped to the floor, not even bothering to lie on the bed.

“Go… _fuck yourself_ ,” she’d repeated, then conked out.

 

It’s been an hour since they first arrived, and Jaime can hear Lancel snoring in the other room. His brother lies beside him, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling above him, but they remain silent. What else is there to say? _The booze, the magazines, the dinner, the baby, the car ride…_

“Wouldn’t have guessed this night would turn out this way,” Tyrion says finally. He turns his head to look at Jaime, smiling. He’d always had the same goddamn perfect teeth their sister had had.

“Definitely not,” Jaime replies, before saying, “Thanks, by the way…Tyrion. For helping.”

“I would say it’s my pleasure, dear brother, but that would be a lie. Though Taena Merryweather waking up with a stranger’s dick in her face is a nice Christmas present.”

“Yeah…Well thank you, nonetheless. I appreciate it.” Jaime takes off his dirty socks and throws them onto the imp’s face. Tyrion feigns a hacking cough, and then shifts to face his older brother with a conspiring gleam in his eyes.

“Do you think we should get a glass of warm water and stick Lancel’s hand in it?” he asks, licking his lips jokingly at the thought of a pee-drenched Lancel. Their cousin is such an easy target, it’d be a travesty to not take advantage of the sap in this vulnerable state, Tyrion muses to himself. He mentally plans his stealth approach and escape.

“Leave the poor kid alone,” Jaime chuckles, picturing Lancel rousing in the morning to find his pants and covers completely soiled, “Plus Dad would freak if his chair smelled like piss.”

“Psh, _I’ll_ piss on _Father,_ for all I care. The man probably can’t smell anything, anyways, what with that stick pushed so far up his arse.”

Tyrion wants to make a comment about Cersei and the cocaine, but refrains from doing so. He gets the impression that his brother doesn’t yet know how far his twin has fallen since the abortion.

Jaime wants to say something about how it isn’t a pole up Tywin Lannister’s ass, but he hates talking shit about his Dad. It doesn’t feel right, and he knows his brother will only take the joke too far for Jaime’s liking.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” Jaime questions instead, sounding almost like a little brace-faced boy again, “Us, I mean. You, me, and Cersei. Do you think we’ll be okay?”

Tyrion moves uncomfortably.

“We’ll be fine, J. You’ll leave the war and have perfect little babies that’ll all look like you and be the stars of whatever sports team they’re on. I’ll grow to be a rich, old man, still fucking all the lovely ladies who will surely be throwing themselves at me once I publish my debut novel. And Cersei…” Tyrion pauses to think, “Well, Cersei will get a reality show on TLC about prostitution and drug lording. And then blow all the money…on prostitution and drug lording.”

 Jaime punches his sibling in the shoulder.

“I’m being serious, Tyrion. It scares the shit out of me sometimes, y’know? I feel like we grew up so fucking privileged, and now that we’re out in the real world, we don’t really know how to survive.”       

Tyrion understands – he understands far too well – and it unnerves him to know that Jaime - Brave Warrior Jaime – could be plagued by the worries of such common men. Wasn’t he above that? Weren’t he and Cersei golden gods that weren’t bothered by anything, least of all the rest of the world?

“Like I said, J, we’ll be fine,” Tyrion clears his throat, and he thinks he sounds eerily like his father and decides to continue to make up for it:

“We have each other – and as much as I hate your fucking guts sometimes, you know my hand will always be here to slap you in the face and then pull you back up.”

Jaime rolls over on his side, quiet, but satisfied with Tyrion’s response. He doesn’t know what to say, but he feels reassured that nothing and no one could hurt a Lannister except a Lannister, himself.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” Tyrion whispers, their backs to each other now.

“Goodnight, Tyrion,” Jaime mumbles.

“’Night, Cers,” the little man says, but their sister is fast asleep, a log on the forest floor.

Tyrion affects a woman’s voice – so awfully high-pitched, so hysterically unlike Cersei’s – and speaks out the side of his mouth.

“Goodnight, brothers. I love you, and you are wonderful people who are _much_ nicer and more attractive than me…Especially you, Tyrion. Especially you.”

Jaime guffaws at the poor imitation, already drifting off.

“Happy Christmas,” Tyrion yawns.

They both fall asleep to the sound of the winter wind, and the faint whistle of Cersei’s breath.

 

            **THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending, at last! Sad to finish this one. Hope you all enjoyed and have happy holidays! :)


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